L. A. Renza

"The last radio is playing"

--Bob Dylan

Mornings in the 1940s
a blue box with plastic yellow knobsspoke with this and that
intimate voice.You had to imagine its face,round or
perhaps with an Anglo-Saxon bass.For a while I heard some War was
going on,but I was too young to know.For example, I thought all
Germans were green.Sometimes it announced that city streetsraged
full of snow and thick, cold winds.

And yet, I was told
that thingswould turn out indubitably fine.In those days, I
never came across bars,and even dumb souls were bound to get saved.
Besides, the vocal sounds said that
certain treats from cigars to chrome
carscould lead to happy debuts.People also essentially believed
in harps,that is, never really diedbut instead just left for
better ground.

Of course, nowadays
radio waves alonecan’t prevent the eventual scar.At best, they
twin with techno-guides,electric sigils to see you through.
Doubtless they all provide a pleasant
ride,no albatross tracking like a ghost,and can bring you far
from those seacoast tides that leave
behindthin sticks of soundless loss.What fool wants to turn out
a wet fossil?

But then, I see now
that some people existwho should never die but dowhile those who
shouldhang on, persist, forever battleto outlast our vigils.
Can we ever doubt this doubt enoughto vent a calm bravado and avoid
the prattle?Edification now descends from loud louts.Hidden
wires ruin our skieswhile our greatest verbs go numb in crowds.

L. A. RENZA is a retired professor who has
published critical works on suck writers as Poe, Wallace Stevens and,
most recently, Bob Dylan.